Sister Josefa de la Purificación, letter to Our Lady
JESUS, MARY AND JOSEPH
Do not judge my boldness, My beloved Queen Mother. That my pen is encouraged To write you this letter.
It’s true that like the sun, Full of the light of grace, I behold you, in whom I cannot Fix my unworthy gaze
It is true that from infinity You reach the very boundary, And my letter’s pen is the tool To touch it and come near.
But, Lady, I am encouraged By the same rare greatness That you enjoy; for it is quite fitting For greatness to be human.
What encourages me is that you are my Mother, And I, an ungrateful daughter. You are my sweet Lady, And I am your unworthy slave.
What encourages me is the profession made Yesterday, my Mother, in this house. From the great Father Augustine, I am a Discalced Religious.
With sighs and laments, I will water your beautiful plants, And since you are Mother and can, You protect this your daughter.
What I intend to write, I will tell you in a few words, That it is not just to be a bother When I see you tired.
The Evangelist Luke Declares as truth established That by the command of Caesar You embark on your journey.
I am told that in your kin You find no shelter or inn, And finally, I am told, Lady, That you are near to childbirth.
Ah, beautiful Dawn, how sorrowful My soul flows from my chest, Seeing so many hardships faced By the one whom my affection idolises.
How is it possible that she suffers Such horrific storms, The ship that brings to the world The purest, spotless bread?
How is it possible that the most fragrant rose And the most gallant lily Be seen, withered from vile plants?
But I already know, you will tell me, You suffer for my teaching
I wish I could benefit From such a sovereign lesson.
What I offer you Is to give you a poor shelter In my cell, which although small Is wide in desire.
There, better than in Bethlehem, You will be able to stay in seclusion, Because instead of a manger, You will find a straw bed and blanket.
My arms will be the cradle Or whoever is lucky enough To have that Child sleep in them, Whom your womb has kept safe.
If by chance He is cold, The fire will not be needed, For the flames of my heart Will replace them.
I will make many caresses, Sing Him a thousand tunes, Encourage Him with sighs, And ask for many graces.
For as I desire To love Him who loves me so much, I will not cease for a single moment To explain my fine desires.
I will tell how many perfections Are found in all the saints By God’s providence, Which are deposited in you.
I will say that you are pure, beautiful, That you are a prophet, you are holy, That you are the Mother of God, And that there is nothing more.
That I am a former diametral opposite To all these graces, That I, by mere imperfections, Keep my poor soul.
Make, then, my pure Virgin, That I fall into no more weaknesses, And since you are hope, In you I place my hope.
Console the sinners, The whole Church praises you, I am a sinner and sad, Consolation awaits my soul
My letter, Lady, is this: Forgive me if it displeases you, For being an ignorant woman, I hope you will excuse me.
I write it on the 18th Of December, in your house, In the year 1800, Your humble and poor slave
Who adores your feet, humbly and prostrated, Mercies of the Saviour who places her hope in you.
